


The fifth spirit

by Quecksilver_Eyes



Category: Frozen (Disney Movies)
Genre: F/M, a bridge has two sides - and mother had two daughters, in which adjusting to arendelle is a slow and horrible thing for iduna, in which elsa is born
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:00:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22555225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quecksilver_Eyes/pseuds/Quecksilver_Eyes
Summary: On her wedding day, Iduna tries to remember what it felt like to be carried by the wind, and as her fiancé – husband, now – leans down to kiss her, she finds that she can’t remember, anymore.
Relationships: Agnarr/Iduna (Disney), Anna & Elsa (Disney)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 58





	The fifth spirit

On her wedding day, when Iduna looks at Agnarr and the way he almost seems to glow, the way his hair is like the autumn sun; spun, the way he stands, his back straight, his medals glinting in the dusk light, a smile on his lips and in his eyes, she looks at the way the leaves blow softly over the payment, the way the water splashes against ships, against legs, against feet and gowns and stones, the way fire is for light or warmth, the way the earth is for building. On her wedding day, Iduna tries to remember what it felt like to be carried by the wind, and as her fiancé – husband, now – leans down to kiss her, she finds that she can’t remember, anymore.

Her hair is tied up and snug at the back of her head, her dress all embroidered in Arendelle and its colours, her feet in shoes that keep her so far away from the way the ground feels and moves that she might as well not stand on it at all. There’s a song in her throat, royalty at her fingertips, smiling and twirling her and Iduna has forgotten what the wind feels like on her skin. Agnarr is all smiles and soft hands, and Iduna aches with the tenderness of it, with the way his eyes look, the way he smooths out her hair and trails soft kisses on her cheeks, her jaw, the line of her throat, along her knuckles and the way they ache in this country and its ways. Agnarr smiles and Iduna thinks ‘I love you, I love you, I _love_ you’ and cannot remember what magic feels like under her fingertips, what laughter feels like lodged deep in her throat.

(That’s a lie, this one. She does know. When Agnarr wraps his arms about her, when he reads to her with his voice pitched high, or low, laughter tangled somewhere in her smoothed out curls, that’s when joy bubbles in Iduna’s chest, something like she remembers playing with the wind being like, something like she remembers home feeling like, like bubbles bursting light, all shrieking glee. When she hoists up her dress, slips out of those sleek, dark shoes, and grips at the rough bark of a dying tree, when she feels its leaves on her skin and pulls herself up into its branches, her heart is high in her throat, and her ribcage trembles with it all.)

Iduna doesn’t know if this, her wedding is Arendellian or royal or both, but her chest aches for open skies and trousers and her hair all in curls, for the way the spirits would wrap around each bride to be, sparkling and soft, all the forest would be gathered in joy. Here, she is wrapped in a dress, here she is fitted into shoes and undergarments and sleek, straight hair, here she is draped in jewellery and blush, here, a wedding is held in between stone walls, here, she may not see Agnarr until the ceremony. Here, she tries worrying her hands and her hair and herself undone, until someone reaches for her, holding her hands and her worries tight in their palms.

Here, she is a queen to be. Here, she cannot fret. Here, she may not scream until her throat is raw, until her lips are chapped and her hands ache with it all. Here, she may not see Agnarr. Here, her stomach curls and tightens, cool to the touch.

* * *

Elsa is born and the world stands still. Elsa is born, with white hair and cold, cold skin, and the world is frozen. Agnarr reaches for her, the way her little hands are frosted over and curled inwards, and his breath fogs up. Iduna aches. Her husband cradles their child as if she was something breakable, soft, and Iduna aches for magic, the way it used to surround her, the way it used to be just under her feet, tangled in her hair, curled as it was.

Elsa is born, and she is so cold, screaming, curling into her father, reaching for her mother with hands glowing blue with magic, and Iduna can’t help the way she cries, the way she wails when Agnarr places her in her arms, ever careful, as if this, their child, was as fragile as glass. Elsa reaches for her hair, the way it’s come undone in strands, and Iduna kisses the top of her little head.

“Hello, Elsa”, she says quietly, and Elsa’s hands glow blue with magic Iduna has missed since she called the wind to carry Agnarr home, barefoot and breathless under the golden sun. “Welcome to the world.”

Elsa giggles. The world frosts over underneath her fingertips and Iduna’s ache numbs. Agnarr furrows his brows.

“She’s magic”, he says quietly, his voice a small, small thing hidden somewhere in his throat. He sinks to his knees next to Iduna and reaches for Elsa’s little hands, prying them from Iduna’s hair. He cradles them in his palms and looks at Elsa, that tuft of white hair, that cold skin, and her big eyes, and Iduna can see the grieving boy she once knew mirrored in his eyes.

She pulls herself up. “She is”, she says softly, cradling Elsa close to her chest. Her arms tremble with it. “Isn’t she lovely, Agnarr? Isn’t she a gift?”

* * *

Years later, when Elsa is grown and clad in ice, her sister cradles her hands the way their father once did. Years later, when Elsa’s powers have grown and changed and pulled at her, her little sister looks at her the way their mother once did. “You are a _gift_ ”, she says, unflinching, unfreezing, her hair red as the earth underneath them, her grief a swallowed, quiet thing.

Behind them, the echo of Iduna’s cry calls for Elsa the way it did for the wind, once. Elsa looks at her sister, her eyes as big as the world, her hair white, her hands frosted over. “You’re a gift”, Anna says with their father’s hands and their mother’s voice, with her love, unafraid.


End file.
